


Not Quite A Garden

by Cant_We_Just_Dance



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Flowers, Look this is overly poetic and you just need to accept it, M/M, Poetic, Short, Smallpox mention, War, Washette - Freeform, blood mention, death mention, frost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 20:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11721705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cant_We_Just_Dance/pseuds/Cant_We_Just_Dance
Summary: Their love had not grown like a garden.There were no small green sprigs sprouting up from the dark earth below, triumphant in its effort to break the surface that had once entirely contained them. Blossoms had not bloomed from rosebuds into gorgeous, flowering splotches of scarlet, although a point could be made if one were to reference the thorns adoring the stems of the rosebushes, which was rather reminiscent of their early relationship. Sharp edges that could cut into one’s skin, dropping crimson onto scarlet as one hissed in pain at the prick of the thorn, not being prepared for such a thing in the slightest.





	Not Quite A Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is @jamisahivemind from tumblr! Make sure to comment, kudos, and hang out with me over on the hellsite!

Their love had not grown like a garden. 

There were no small green sprigs sprouting up from the dark earth below, triumphant in its effort to break the surface that had once entirely contained them. Blossoms had not bloomed from rosebuds into gorgeous, flowering splotches of scarlet, although a point could be made if one were to reference the thorns adoring the stems of the rosebushes, which was rather reminiscent of their early relationship. Sharp edges that could cut into one’s skin, dropping crimson onto scarlet as one hissed in pain at the prick of the thorn, not being prepared for such a thing in the slightest.

Gardens were planted. Planned, plotted out, and eagerly awaited. Each new season that the world brought with them was scheduled alongside different species of plants, being studied and inspected carefully as to prevent a disease from spreading plant to plant until the entire plot of land was overtaken by darkness, like spilled ink on a piece of aged parchment that had once contained important messages meant for only one person’s eyes, and the only person that would be hurt by reading it would be the one to find it.

Looking back, Lafayette knew that he had not meant to fall in love, and if he asked George, the taller man’s response would be much the same. Because their love for one another hadn’t simply been planted gently in fresh soil, and grown up, twisting around the two of them like vines of dark ivy, the leaves brushing kisses onto each other’s cheeks in reassurance that the war would end someday. Intertwined between their joined hands was not the stem of a dandelion, bright yellow and radiating joy from each of its countless minuscule petals. And although a dandelion was a weed, a pest, a nuisance, that had never stopped Lafayette from seeing one and wishing he could pluck it up from the ground and give it to George, like a shy child handing one to their crush.

But there was no time for flowers, not during war. Every dandelion Lafayette had seen in the past year was either tread on to the point of being near-unrecognizable, or even worse, painted a stark red that smelt far too strongly of copper and typically accompanied with cannon and gunshot smoke swirling into the once-clear sky.

And since their love was not a garden, Lafayette decided that it was frost. The very same frost growing on the blades of grass the crunched beneath their feet during the morose winter they spent in Valley Forge. Groans could be heard from all sides of the camp, either from pain or hunger, the Marquis was not able to decipher which was which anymore. All sound had simply melded together into a cacophony of frayed violin strings and guitars that had not been tuned in quite some time.

With each step, his leg ached a bit more, but he did his best to ignore the pain and continue walking toward his destination. There was no time for pain, and much less time for love, while they were dying by the hundreds, while their men starved and screamed in agony as they loudly criticized congress and various commanders by using less-than-pleasant words. Finally, Lafayette had reached the tent in center of camp, the burlap flaps hanging lifelessly and nearly frozen still as frost laced the edges, flowering on in patterns that he would have found gorgeous, had he the strength to care about them.

Slowly, he pulled the tent flap back and stepped inside, sighing in slight relief as he felt the barely-there change in temperature caused by body heat radiating off of the man focusing intently on the documents on his desk in front of him. He was hunched over the desk, a hand on the side of his head as he rubbed his temples gently in frustration.

“General Washington, sir?” Lafayette asked quietly, his voice shy, unlike usual. Typically, his voice was clear as the sky during summer nights, loud and full of life- but now? After seeing so many brave men that had sacrificed all they had die in pain and agony due to a disease? Their lives escaped the camp, as well as the life in Lafayette’s voice. “I was to report here and inform you of the smallpox body count for the day.”

George sighed heavily, his voice pained and he looked up at Lafayette with sorrowful eyes surrounded by a mask of indifference. “And the count is?”

“…Forty…” Lafayette whispered, casting his eyes downward onto the cloth floor below his feet, the fabric of his uniform suddenly becoming too tight and far too itchy or his taste.

At this news, Washington let out a quiet, broken sigh, setting his papers aside and standing up, walking over to the Marquis.

“Lafayette…” He whispered, tucking a stray curl behind his lover’s ear. “Words cannot express how grateful I am to find that you are not one of those forty men who we have lost.”

“I am glad to hear that news as well,” Lafayette attempted to joke, his tone far too serious for either man to even let out a soft chuckle. “General Washington-”

“Lafayette, I asked you to not call me that when we are alone,” George cut him off, lifting Lafayette’s chin slightly as to look him in the eyes. “It is late at night, and it is just the two of us. During moments such as these, I wish for you to call me by my first name.”

Lafayette attempted to weakly smile at his lover, bring his hand up and gently pulling George’s away from his face and squeezing it tightly. “I’ll do my best, George. Force of habit.”

“I understand, Gilbert,” George answered, squeezing Lafayette’s hand reassuringly. “But for now, perhaps we should not speak of other men. Even during such times, it is important we leave time for us to clear our minds.”

“And how shall we do that?” Lafayette asked, staring up at George with wide, sad eyes.

“Perhaps,” George began, wrapping his arms around Lafayette’s waist and pulling him close, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “I could remind you that I love you more than anything else in this world. That you’ve grown on me, like frost on a windowsill, so perfectly intricate and impossible to replicate. How every second I spend without you feels like being buried by snowstorms for eternity. Or that whenever I see your face, I fear that I find myself unable to do anything other than smile.”

“That sounds like quite the severe weakness.”

“Only if I didn’t want you to know how much you mean to me.”


End file.
